


Moments In Between

by Snafu1000



Series: 'Moments In Time' Universe [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snafu1000/pseuds/Snafu1000
Summary: A Moments In Time sequel. The Blight has ended, but for Warden-Commander Talia Cousland and her companions, the challenges have just begun.
Relationships: Female Cousland/Leliana (Dragon Age)
Series: 'Moments In Time' Universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/24959
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	1. The Joining

_**Late Bloomingtide, 31 Dragon** _

" _Join us, brothers and sisters."_

Talia's voice held steady, but her heart was thundering in her chest, and her gut was roiling so savagely that she hadn't been able to manage more than a few sips of tea at breakfast. Alistair stood beside her, outwardly no less calm than she appeared to be, though she knew that he shared the trepidation that she felt.

Behind them stood Warden-Constable Clarel de Chanson, second-in-command of the Orlesian order. The mage had been the first off the ship three days earlier, caught between awed exultation that the Archdemon had been slain and frustrated fury at being kept so long from the fight by Loghain Mac Tir.

Spread out around the perimeter of the chamber were ten other Grey Wardens; only a fraction of the number that had arrived with her, but all that the room could comfortably accommodate. After a year with she and Alistair the sole Grey Wardens in Ferelden, it was dizzying to look about and see so much Warden blue. All of them, she and Alistair included, were wearing their armor with surcoats of blue trimmed with silver and the twin griffons of the order's heraldry adorning the front, their weapons sheathed or secured at their backs. It looked impressive, but all of them knew that the purpose was not merely ceremonial.

Other Grey Wardens stood outside, guarding the entrance to the room, which had been used by Denerim's guard to muster each shift and assign the day's patrols. Queen Anora had given the Wardens a vacant wing of the barracks in Fort Drakon as temporary headquarters, the rest of Denerim being too heavily damaged to provide any suitable buildings. The battered remnants of the guard had been warned to give the ceremony privacy, but no chances were being taken.

In the center of the chamber, facing Talia and Alistair, waited the Grey Warden recruits, nine in all.

" _Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant."_

Cauthrien stood at the fore, her expression calm, her gaze steady. Her resolve had not wavered – at least not visibly – when they had been told that the ritual required that they drink darkspawn blood, and that some of them might not survive their Joining.

Mhairi was beside her; she'd plainly been shaken by the revelations, but she'd held firm, as had Anders, though the mage looked more serious than Talia had ever seen him. Hardly surprising, since his only option besides the Grey Wardens was trying to evade the wrath of the templars, many of whom remained in Denerim to oversee the mages who were still tending to the survivors of the battle. Talia had had sharp words with Knight-Commander Greagoir about Rylock's attack during the battle, been assured that the lieutenant had gone rogue, but she'd seen other templars regarding Anders with no less hostility. If he survived the Joining, he would still not be out of danger.

If he survived ...

Oghren was still standing, but the taint had begun to gain ground; the dwarf's normally ruddy face was grey-tinged, with the first hint of the dark spiderwebbing of veins appearing on at his temples and cheeks, but his gruff bluster remained intact. Five other recruits were afflicted with the taint: Taylen, a Dalish archer; two dwarves: Korthun and Icaris, and two humans: one a mercenary named Dannor, the other a member of Denerim's guard named Arissa.

Scores more had been tainted by darkspawn blood in the battle: in the eyes, the mouth, an open wound. Most of them had died quickly, or been killed by folk terrified that they would become ghouls and spread the taint further. Of the six, Oghren was definitely in the best condition; the rest leaned upon each other to remain upright, and Taylen was too weak to stand, and had been brought in on a litter. Clarel said that the advance of the taint seemed to have little influence on the odds of survival, so any who had accepted the offer of recruitment were to be given the chance. The dwarves and Arissa had been fairly pragmatic about the prospect of life as Grey Wardens, but Dannor and Taylen had protested bitterly, only acceding when told – gently but firmly – that there was no alternative. They would be Grey Wardens or they would be dead. That it was true did not lessen the bitter taste that the ultimatum had left on Talia's tongue, or make the half resentful, half fearful glares that the pair directed at her burn any less, though she gave no outward sign.

" _Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn."_

Others had volunteered. Even after the death of the Archdemon, darkspawn remained a threat and would for several more years, until what was known as the Thaw ended and the last of the monsters were either killed or driven back below the ground. The Ferelden order would need to be rebuilt to meet the threat, and with their role in ending this most recent Blight still fresh in the minds of the populace, there was no shortage of those wanting to join an order of heroes.

Clarel had recommended against it for the moment. Large numbers in a Joining risked large numbers of deaths that would be difficult to conceal in Fort Drakon. Discussions were underway about a new headquarters in Ferelden, and once that was done and privacy ensured, more Joinings could be undertaken, never more than a few at a time. Had it been her choice, Talia would have done none at all, but as Ferelden's Warden-Commander, she no more had that choice than had Duncan.

" _And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you._ "

As she spoke the final words, Talia accepted the chalice from Alistair and held it out: the same one that she had drunk from, found amid the ruins of Ostagar. And then she faltered, unable to make herself choose who would be the first to drink. Who might be the first to die.

Cauthrien stepped forward, cobalt blue eyes regarding Talia gravely as she held out her hands. Of all those before her, Loghain Mac Tir's former second-in-command likely understood best the doubts that gnawed at Talia. They had spoken at length of what had transpired from the retreat at Ostagar onward, how duty and loyalty had ensnared one who had always regarded both as ideals of the highest order and realized only too late that the blade could cut both ways. Those who had died as a result of Cauthrien's actions – and inaction – could never be brought back. To serve as a Grey Warden would be her atonement … or to die here as a Grey Warden. She seemed prepared to accept either fate with equal pragmatism.

Talia placed the chalice in Cauthrien's hands, then held her breath as the warrior lifted it to her lips without hesitation, features set in resolve. Did she hope to die? She swallowed once, grimacing in distaste, then once more, lowering the chalice back to Talia's waiting hands.

For a long moment, nothing. Their eyes met, Cauthrien's clearly puzzled: _Is that all there is?_ Abruptly, her face twisted into a rictus of agony; she doubled over with a groan, and when she staggered back and lifted her head, her eyes had rolled back until only the whites showed. Talia stood frozen, her heart in her throat, the memory of Daveth all too clear in her mind; he had died just like this.

"Maker's balls!" she heard Dannor mutter as Cauthrien collapsed to the stone floor and lay motionless. Handing the chalice to Alistair, Talia knelt beside the fallen woman, feeling at her throat with trembling fingers.

"She's alive," she reported after a moment, looking up to meet Alistair's eyes and seeing her own relief reflected there. A murmur of approval rippled through the circle of Wardens; such a formidable fighter would be a welcome addition to their ranks.

She stood, and two of the Wardens bore Cauthrien to the cots that waited at the back of the room: one for each of the recruits, though no one believed that all of them would be occupied by living Wardens at the conclusion of the Joining.

"Let's get this over with." Oghren stepped up to Alistair, swaying slightly as he held out his hands for the chalice, then peering at the thick, black liquid within. "What is this, the sample size?" he demanded, tipping it up and draining the contents in three great gulps. He lowered the cup, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and emitted a sonorous belch as he handed the chalice back and Alistair passed it off to be refilled.

"Not bad," he grunted, then clutched at his gut and toppled with a strangled oath. Talia crouched next to Alistair, watching with her heart in her throat as he felt for a pulse, then sagging against him a bit when he looked to her and nodded. Oghren was carried to a cot and began snoring almost immediately, bringing a few smiles to the serious faces of the Wardens.

The survival of the first two seemed to hearten the recruits, and Anders managed a trace of his typical jauntiness as he stepped forward and took the cup. "Just so you know, if I wake up two weeks from now on a ship bound for Rivain in nothing but my smalls with a tattoo on my ass, I'm blaming you." His levity drew disapproving frowns from a few of the Wardens, chuckles from more; when he too survived the draught, the relief was paired with a rising tension. Everyone present knew that it couldn't last.

Then it was Mhairi who stepped forward, nervous but resolved, Mhairi who drank and fell to the stone with her eyes rolled white, but this time, when Talia knelt beside her, her trembling fingers could not find any trace of a heartbeat.

"I'm sorry, Mhairi" she whispered, feeling the sting of tears as she reached out to close the sightless eyes of the woman who had risked her own life to save Talia and Alistair. Of the four who had spirited them out of Fort Drakon, only Cauthrien survived. Trystan had been swept away when the dwarven explosives had opened the Deep Roads tunnels beneath the city to the river and bay, sweeping away the darkspawn but collapsing many of the streets into the raging torrent beneath. Kylon had fallen protecting Fergus and Anora as they struggled to save elves in the Alienage, trapped when the Archdemon had destroyed the bridge leading to the other side of Denerim.

Mhairi's body was carried to the back of the room, placed on a cot a bit away from the three survivors, and a blanket drawn over her face. The Joining continued.

Korthun survived. Icaris and Arissa died.

"No." Dannor stumbled back as Talia approached him, his pale face twisted into a visage of fear and loathing. "You lied to us! You told us this would save our lives!"

"We told you it was your only chance," she countered, her voice giving no hint of the stab of guilt that his words triggered in her. They had not promised that the Joining would cure the taint; he had heard what he desperately wanted to believe, but that did not lessen the dread that began to tighten her gut as she handed the chalice to Alistair and held her hands out to Dannor. "It still is." She could feel the weight of Clarel's eyes on her back, knew that it fell to her to resolve this … one way or the other. "You have to drink," she told him, holding his eyes, willing him to obey.

"I won't!" Bending, he snatched a small dagger from his boot and lunged for her, but the advancing taint had slowed his movements and dulled his reflexes. It was only too easy for Talia to draw her own dagger, sidestep to avoid his attack, and drive her blade in beneath his ribs and up. His knife clattered to the floor, and she caught him as he crumpled, lowering him onto his back and looking into his wide eyes as the life faded from them.

"I am sorry, Dannor." She closed his eyes and stood, feeling her pulse roaring in her ears and unable to look up to meet the eyes of the rest, knowing that one remained.

"Kill me," Taylen said in a flat voice when she turned to him as Dannor was borne away. "This is an abomination," he spat, glaring around at them in disgust. "You are no better than the darkspawn. Kill me and return me to my clan."

This was nothing that Talia had anticipated or prepared herself for. She looked to Clarel helplessly; the older Warden nodded gravely, making no move to step in.

Talia swallowed hard against a throat that seemed impossibly tight and knelt beside Taylen, reaching out to take up the dagger that she had laid aside, Dannor's blood still glistening on the blade. "You're sure?" she asked him softly. "There's still a chance -"

"I don't want it," he cut her off, loathing burning behind the taint haze in his eyes. "Kill me, Warden, or give me that blade and I'll do it myself.

Talia nodded, reaching out to grip his shoulder with her free hand and positioning the dagger. "I'm -" she started to speak, but couldn't finish. The blade was sharp; it needed only a bit of pressure to slip between two ribs and into the heart. Taylen stiffened, one hand coming up to convulsively clutch at the hand holding the dagger. Then he went limp, his final breath escaping him in a thin wheeze, but it seemed to Talia that his eyes still watched her accusingly.

She pulled the dagger out and let it fall to the floor. She never wanted to touch it again; she had killed many times since Rendon Howe had attacked Highever, but never like this. A hand appeared before her: Alistair's. She took it, let him help her to her feet, but didn't let herself lean into him as she very much wanted to do.

"Five dead." Clarel joined them, offering Talia a damp rag. "Not as many as some Joinings I've attended, but this one was … more difficult than most." Her measuring gaze took in Talia. "You did well."

"I didn't want to do any of it," Talia told her, scrubbing the blood from her hands and watching as Taylen's body was carried to the last empty cot. The blood on her surcoat could not be so easily wiped away; fortunately, it was still cool enough that cloaks were worn outside. "I don't … know if I can do it again." She met Clarel's dark eyes. "Does it get easier?"

The Warden-Constable shook her head. "Nor should it. Those who die in the Joining, are no less our brethren than those who are lost in battle against the darkspawn. Their deaths should never be taken lightly."

"No," Talia agreed with a heavy sigh. Her gaze shifted to the cots whose occupants' faces were not covered. Four out of nine. She was relieved that Cauthrien, Oghren and Anders had survived, felt guilty for feeling relief. And Mhairi - "How long will they be out?" she asked, swallowing the lump that was trying to rise. Not here. Not now.

"Several hours," Clarel replied, adding with a faint smile, "I suspect that your dwarven friend will sleep longer than that. We will watch over them and send word when they awaken."

Talia shook her head. "They'll belong to the Fereldan order. Alistair and I can stay with them."

Clarel's smile broadened a bit. "Learn to delegate," she advised. "You spent a year with no one but yourselves to rely upon. These will be the first, but the Fereldan order will grow. For now, you should consider us to be under your command and utilize us as such."

Talia strongly doubted that it would be so simple as that, particularly if she started making decisions that the more experienced Wardens did not agree with, but right now, the fresh bloodstains on the floor were making it hard to breathe.

The prospect of returning to the castle raised a new dilemma. "What do we tell people?" she asked Clarel worriedly, then looked quizzically to Alistair. "What did Duncan tell everyone at Ostagar? About Jory and Daveth, I mean?" The Joining had taken place in an isolated section of the ruins, but it would have been difficult to conceal the fact that three recruits had accompanied Duncan and Alistair, but only one returned. Yet no one had remarked upon it in the war council that she had been present for.

Alistair blinked. "He … told them that they had been killed by darkspawn," he said, eyeing her bemusedly. "I just figured he'd told you, but -"

"Other stuff came up," she finished for him wryly.

"Indeed," Clarel chuckled, then grew serious once more. "Traditionally, Grey Warden recruits are sequestered until after their first sortie against the darkspawn. Those who do not survive their Joining are reported to the rest of the world as having been killed in battle." She glanced toward the door. "The current circumstances present a challenge, but we have some experience in such situations." She turned back to them, her dark eyes serious. "It is imperative that none outside the order know the truth of the matter."

Talia nodded wearily. It wasn't the first time they'd been given that warning since the reinforcements had arrived. Fortunately, she had been able to say that Alistair had told her of the restriction early on, and the other Wardens seemed to have accepted their word that they had told none of their companions. She'd caught Clarel giving Leliana a measuring glance on occasion, but she had been careful to give the Warden-Constable nothing to fuel suspicion.

They left, though not without Talia checking on the four unconscious Wardens, assuring herself that yes, they were still breathing.

She could feel the curious eyes upon her and Alistair as they moved through Fort Drakon; more than a few of those who had volunteered to join the Grey Wardens had been among Denerim's guard. She kept her expression impassive, her cloak drawn around her, and they did not speak until they were on the street.

"That was ..." Alistair drew a shaky breath, let it out, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, "rough."

"Yes." A pitifully inadequate descriptive, but Talia's mind felt too wrung out and numb to search for a better fit. They walked in silence, occasionally lifting hands to acknowledge the cries of greeting called to them from those working to clear away the rubble. No darkspawn, thank the Maker. They were well away from Denerim, seeking to once again go underground, back to the Deep Roads, pursued by teams of newly arrived Grey Wardens and members of the Legion of the Dead. Soon enough, Talia and Alistair would join them in that task, but for the first time in a year, there were others to share that burden, and so for a few more days, at least, they would rest. Only the deteriorating condition of the tainted recruits had necessitated this Joining.

"I would have helped with -" Alistair rubbed one hand over the back of his neck awkwardly. "You know."

"I know." Talia gave him a wan smile, then sighed. "It just happened so fast. I didn't expect Taylen to -" She broke off, her hand reaching instinctively for the comfort of a burly head, finding only empty air as she had at least a score of times in the past few days, her mind still unable to fully accept that Brego was gone. Her gaze turned downward where, despite the regular rains, traces of the blood that had been spilled still lingered in the streets: dried in the cracks between cobblestones, staining the wood of collapsed buildings. So much blood … would it ever be washed away?

"You're going to tell her?" he asked as they approached the palace.

Talia nodded, shrugged. "She knows anyway." She had told Leliana all the secrets of the Grey Wardens. It had seemed the right thing to do in the moment; she had not wanted to hide anything from her lover. That had been long before Riordan had warned them: if the other Grey Wardens discovered that the Orlesian knew so much, they would conscript her, force her to undergo the Joining: force her to become one of them, alive or dead. Icy tendrils of fear unfurled in her gut alongside white-hot claws of rage at the thought of her bard crumpling to the floor with eyes rolled white, and she felt her fists clenching, her windpipe narrowing.

"It's all right," he reassured her quickly, laying a hand on her shoulder. "They don't know, and we're not going to tell them." Talia was the Warden-Commander in name, but Alistair had been at her side from the moment both of them had been released from bed rest, offering his opinions, supporting her decisions. She would have had it no other way; just as in the Blight, his presence, his humor, his understanding, made the daunting task that lay before her seem bearable.

"She knows how to keep secrets," Talia reasoned. Leliana had played the Grand Game in Orlais, and though she had left that life behind, the skills that she had learned remained with her.

"Yes." Talia caught the odd note in Alistair's voice, but before she could give it much thought, they were being saluted by the guards on duty at the gates, and her attention shifted to getting upstairs to her rooms without being noticed. She didn't want to have to answer any questions about the Joining, though she knew that their other companions would be worried about Oghren, Anora would want to know about Cauthrien, and Fergus would ask after Anders. All three were all right, but those questions would lead to queries bout the rest of the recruits, and she didn't feel ready to lie to them, even with Clarel having provided the lie.

She had killed two men. Murdered them, and watched three more die because she had told them they had no other choice. And these were only the first. How many more deaths in the name of restoring the Fereldan order and remaining vigilant? How much more blood on her hands?

Her armor felt heavier and tighter with each step, making it harder and harder to draw breath. Ahead, familiar voices became audible: Fergus, Anora, Wynne, out of sight in the corridor leading to the conference room, but judging from the sound, approaching the intersection. Talia pulled to a halt, panic rising; in the next moment, Zevran sauntered around the corner, his pose as indolent as ever, but his eyes alert, sweeping this way and that in search of any potential threat to Ferelden's monarchs.

His gaze fell upon them, reading Talia's mood in an instant; the faintest nod directed them to a nondescript door, behind which they found a narrow staircase evidently intended to allow servants to move discreetly between floors. Talia ducked inside gratefully, Alistair behind her, and they made their way to their rooms in the guest wing without encountering anyone else who would ask questions.

"Get some rest," Alistair advised her as he paused with her outside her door. "Then come get me, and we can talk to them together."

Talia nodded, covering the hand that he laid on her shoulder with her own and squeezing it briefly before turning the knob and stepping inside. Leliana was seated at the desk; she set her quill aside and turned, watching worriedly as Talia closed the door, worry turning to alarm as she let the cloak fall to the floor and began tugging the bloody surcoat over her head. It snagged on her armor, and she yanked at it fiercely, breath rasping in her throat, the scent of blood strong in her nose and memory, wanting nothing more than to burn the damned thing.

Leliana rose and came to her wordlessly, gentle hands helping to free the surcoat and ease it over her head, then moving with the same quiet efficiency to the buckles of the armor when Talia attacked them next, hands trembling with the need to be free of the plate, which felt almost as heavy as when it had nearly drowned her in the Deep Roads

When the last piece had clattered to the floor, the bard took her lover's hands and led her away from the heap, further into the room, before drawing her into an embrace. Talia held on tight, her face pressed against Leliana's neck as the tremors that she had held back rolled through her with unstoppable force. No tears fell; the emotions storming through her were too intense: guilt, grief and a towering, frustrated fury. She clung to Leliana like a rock in that storm, breathing in great, shuddering gasps as Mhairi's still face, Dannor's terrified expression and Taylen's loathing gaze filled her mind. Leliana guided her to the floor, stroking her hair and rubbing her back while making soft sounds of comfort.

Slowly, slowly, the storm abated; Talia's breathing slowed and steadied, and the shudders that wracked her tapered off. She remained where she was for a time, bone-weary now and comforted by the warmth of her bard's arms and the delicate fragrance of Andraste's grace.

"What happened?" Leliana asked carefully after a time.

Talia sat up, drawing a slow breath, then another, and rubbing her hands over her face. Fixing her gaze upon the blue sky outside the window, she told it all, her voice a dull monotone bled dry of emotion. More than once, she faltered; each time, the soft pressure of fingers intertwined with her own or the warmth of a hand against her face steadied her until she finished.

"I never killed anyone like that before," she concluded miserably, drooping in defeat. "I murdered them."

"No." Leliana's response was gentle but firm, and a hand beneath her chin nudged her head up to meet the tender regard of cerulean eyes. "They were dying, my love. You gave them mercy."

"It doesn't feel that way." Giving mercy had been an infrequent but dreaded necessity during the Blight. Individuals tainted by darkspawn blood, faced with the prospect of an inexorable and agonizing decline, sometimes begged for a quick death. Others, already too far gone and descended into the mindless savagery of ghouls, had to be killed to keep them from attacking others and spreading the taint. "There will be other Joinings, others who try to back out like Dannor. Like Jory." The knight had not been tainted, but when he had refused the cup, tried to fight, Duncan had killed him anyway. "The Fereldan order has to be rebuilt." The thirty years that had seemed like a lifetime when Alistair had first told her, then all too short a time to be with her love, now stretched before her like an endless road through bleak terrain.

"Then you will do what must be done," Leliana told her earnestly. "And I will be with you."

Another fear surged to the fore, and Talia caught the bard's hand in her own. "The other Wardens can't know what I've told you." She had warned Leliana of this more than once in the past few days, but the memory of Mhairi's still features added a new urgency. "They'll try to conscript you."

"They will not learn of it from me," the Orlesian replied as calmly as if it were the first time she had been so cautioned, instead of the tenth. "I am an accomplished liar." The pretty face grew shadowed as the last words were spoken, and Talia leaned forward to give her lover a reassuring kiss.

"I'm glad of that," she said fervently when she drew back a bit. "I wish I was better at it."

"I wish that you did not have to be." Too pragmatic to pretend that it would be otherwise, Leliana searched Talia's face. "Can you lie to Fergus and the others? Use the story that Warden-Constable Clarel provided?"

"I have to," Talia replied simply. "I'm going to tell them that not all of the tainted ones made it to the Joining, though: Taylen and Dannor." That at least would explain the distress that she doubted she would be able to fully conceal.

Leliana accepted this with a nod. "The closer a lie is to the truth, the easier it is to tell," she agreed, sadness again touching her expression. Talia drew her into another embrace, not so desperate now, and for a time was content to remain so, drawing strength from the contact and the warmth of the sun through the window.

After a bit, however, she drew back once again. "We should go get Alistair and find the others."

Leliana regarded her worriedly. "Perhaps you should rest for a while first?" she suggested, nodding toward the bed.

It sounded tempting, but Talia shook her head. "The guards saw us come in. They'll come looking for us before long." She'd never be able to rest waiting for the knock on the door. "And Alistair's alone now. He needs us." He would be feeling the events of the Joining very nearly as keenly as Talia, and likely blaming himself for not stepping in to deal with Dannor or Taylen.

She stood, reaching out a hand to help Leliana to her feet, then paused, letting their foreheads touch. "I'm glad that I have you," she said softly, her fingertips grazing along the curve of her lover's cheek. The road ahead of her was daunting, but with Leliana and Alistair at her side, she could walk it.


	2. A Royal Wedding

_**Early Justinian, 31 Dragon** _

"Her Majesty, Anora Theirin, Queen of Ferelden!"

In the six years since her marriage to Cailan, Anora had heard the words uttered countless times, but they had taken on new meaning for her in the past few weeks. As a child, knowing that she would be Queen someday had meant learning etiquette and history and heraldry and everything else that her parents had thought she should know, while largely setting aside the swordwork that she had truly enjoyed when it was deemed a less profitable use of her time. As Cailan's wife, being Queen had meant managing the affairs of the kingdom while ignoring the rumors of her husband's dalliances and pretending not to hear the jeers of 'Ice Queen' and the whispers blaming her for the absence of an heir. And yes, she had resumed her weapons training; it had been one of the only things that she could do for her own enjoyment and satisfaction.

She had felt very much alone then. Most of the women her own age had either been bedded by her husband or hoped to be, and the older women seemed to watch her with judging eyes, speculating why her womb remained barren. She had withdrawn, accepting her father's counsel, and focused upon the administrative details, of trade and diplomacy, taxes and infrastructure. giving little thought to the faces of the ones that her policies would affect, determined only to prove her worth lay in more than bearing children.

The Blight had changed that. She had seen for herself the catastrophe that had resulted when her father put the welfare of the kingdom ahead of the people that comprised it, and in the Alienage, she had been faced with a choice: save her own life or the lives of a people that had long been considered the least among her subjects. Looking into Fergus' eyes, the choice had required no thought at all.

Cailan would have, she was fairly sure, done the same thing, but for very different reasons. From childhood, life had been for Maric's son a grand adventure staged for his benefit, his feats of derring-do and glory only befitting the leading role that he considered his birthright with the blithe confidence of one who had never been told otherwise.

His widow had not been thinking of glory when she chose to defend the Alienage, but she had gained it … in the eyes of some, at least. She knew that some nobles scorned the risk she had taken for the 'knife-ears', but they had been careful to keep their sentiments to themselves, and most of them were the same ones that had sneered behind her back before. She cared little for what they thought of her.

It was in the streets of Denerim where she had seen the biggest change, both in her subjects and in the way that she regarded them. Before, they had been a faceless mass outside the windows of the coach as she traveled. The individual expressions that she did note had ranged from curious to fearful to wondering; she had been as one of the moons to them, distant and untouchable, and she had given little thought to their lives beyond what she did to improve the kingdom as a whole.

That had changed the day the darkspawn attacked Denerim. Standing alongside Fergus, looking out on those who had chosen to stay and fight, the sea of faces had resolved into individuals: men and women; young and old; humans, elves and dwarves. All of them frightened, fully expecting to die in the coming fight, but staying anyway. All of them looking to the Grey Wardens and the crown for leadership, inspiration and encouragement. She had fought beside them, seen far too many die, and only now did she truly understand her father's fierce pride in their countrymen. It made her wonder afresh just when and how he had gone so far wrong that he had lost sight of the flesh and blood reality of Ferelden in the drive to preserve an abstract ideal.

Since her injuries had been healed, she and Fergus had made a point of spending time each day out in the city: visiting the wounded, comforting the bereaved, encouraging and aiding those struggling to clear the rubble so that rebuilding could begin. She had torn and soiled numerous dresses on those forays, broken nails and acquired new scratches and bruises to replace those that had healed, but when she looked at the faces around her now, she saw respect, pride, hope.

She was determined to always be worthy of it.

The Grey Wardens in the barracks did not snap to attention as smartly as the guards elsewhere in the garrison had done, but they all straightened and saluted respectfully, and their commander bowed.

"Your Majesty." With the weight of the world no longer resting squarely on her shoulders, Talia Cousland had relaxed considerably, and the smiles that she shared with her companions – particularly Fergus, Alistair and Leliana, made her more closely resemble the girl that Anora remembered. Here, though, she plainly took her duties as Warden-Commander seriously, and had shown no inclination of abdicating that responsibility to the Grey Wardens from Orlais. "What can we do for you?"

"I was hoping I could speak with Warden MacLean privately."

Anora saw two of the more senior Orlesians direct warning glances to Talia, but after a questioning look exchanged with Cauthrien, the young woman nodded.

"Of course." She led the way out of the barracks to a door down the hall. "You can use my office." The wry smile that accompanied her words made sense as soon as they entered; it didn't look as though Talia made much use of the room herself. A few sheets of blank parchment lay on one of the shelves alongside an inkwell and quill, and the only things on the wide, oak desk were her cloak and sword belt.

She left, closing the door behind her. For a long moment, an awkward silence reigned. "Your Majesty," Cauthrien began, inclining her head respectfully, but clearly uncomfortable, "as a Grey Warden, I cannot answer any questions -"

"I know that," Anora chided her gently. Still as serious as ever; would it have been so if her father had not made the decision so many years ago that had driven the wedge between daughter of blood and daughter of steel? How might both their lives have differed if the bonds growing between them had been encouraged instead of severed? It was not a line of thought that she had the luxury of indulging for long. "You look good," she offered carefully. "Life as a Grey Warden suits you, I think."

She meant it as a compliment: a hero in a company of heroes, but Cauthrien shot her a wary sidelong glance. "It is a fitting atonement for me," she replied simply, her posture as straight as if she stood for inspection.

"You have nothing to atone for," Anora told her. Her only fault had been loyalty to the man who had been as much a father to her as he had been to his own daughter, and in that, Anora had been no less guilty.

Cauthrien shook her head, maintaining her rigid stance. "I have much to atone for, Your Majesty," she disagreed stiffly.

Anora sighed. "At ease, Cauthrien … please?" The cobalt eyes cut to her again, and the warrior relaxed somewhat. "I have a personal favor to ask of you." Cauthrien turned toward her, her professional mien slipping into surprise and curiosity. "My marriage to Fergus Cousland takes place in two days," she went on, smoothing her hands across her skirts, feeling an uncharacteristic quiver of nerves in the pit of her stomach. "I would ask … that you stand with me at the ceremony." The last words escaped her in a rush amid a flutter of nerves.

The surprise on Cauthrien's features shifted to astonishment and consternation. "Your Majesty -"

"Anora. Please." She managed to keep the quaver from her voice, but she could not suppress the plaintive note. "I know that you have to maintain proper decorum in public, but when we are alone, please use my name."

A brief hesitation, followed by a nod. "Anora, then," Cauthrien agreed, "but Anora … what you are asking … how it would look -"

"I am not my father," Anora replied sharply, feeling her own words cut more deeply than Cauthrien's ever could. "I … killed my father." She ducked her head, feeling her eyes stinging.

"No." Cauthrien's voice was low and sure. "The Warden-Commander has told me of what happened, and she agrees: he chose his fate, let you end what he had become." Booted feet scuffed softly on the granite stone of the floor, and a moment later, the other woman's hands closed over hers. "You are … the best of what he was. You are the daughter of the Hero of River Dane, the Teyrn of Gwaren." A hand carefully touched her chin, lifting her gaze: greater liberty than any had taken in her recent memory. "You are Ferelden's Queen," Cauthrien told her earnestly when their eyes met. "The Queen that Ferelden needs. He knew that, and he would be proud of you."

Anora felt her breath catch in her chest; in the next moment, she stumbled forward, arms locking around Cauthrien's neck and holding tight. She felt Cauthrien stiffen, then strong arms wrapped her in a careful embrace. She had accepted gentle hugs of reassurance from Fergus in the days since the Landsmeet, and offered them in return, particularly as they waited for Talia to awaken from her injuries, but they had been tentative, both of them very much aware that the marriage that they had agreed to was a political union. She had no expectation of replacing the wife that he had been permitted to marry for love, and for her part, she would be content if he kept any dalliances discreet and childless, and remembered that it took two to beget an heir.

No romantic currents swirled in the room. Perhaps, if her father had not separated them … and perhaps that had been one of his reasons. Even in gawky, long-limbed adolescence, Cauthrien had drawn her eyes, her serious and steady demeanor such a profound contrast to Cailan's impetuous and flighty arrogance. Right now, there was simply comfort in the presence of one who had known her the longest, and the hope that the breach that had existed between them for so long could continue to mend.

After a time, she drew back, slipping a lace handkerchief from her purse and using it to dry her cheeks, feeling cleansed, and yet vulnerable, not quite able to meet the other woman's gaze.

"I will stand with you," Cauthrien told her, "so long as the Warden-Commander has no objections."

"I already cleared it with her," Anora admitted, feeling her cheeks heat a bit. Knowing the answer before you asked the question was one of the foundations of negotiating, was it not?

"Of course you did." The wry rejoinder brought her head up, a sharp retort on her lips until she saw the gleam of humor and bittersweet memory in the dark blue eyes, and for a moment, they were both fifteen again, Cauthrien prepared to follow her lead despite misgivings, trusting the Teyrn's daughter to keep them both out of trouble. It had worked … mostly.

"Thank you," she said, reaching out to give the Warden's hands a grateful squeeze.

"Is there anything I need to do?" Cauthrien wanted to know, faint lines of worry touching her forehead. "Will I be expected to give a speech."

"You need do nothing but stand at my side," Anora assured her as she moved to the door. "I'll send my seamstress this afternoon to get the measurements for your dress."

"Dress?"

She glanced back at the sudden wariness in the warrior's tone. If she'd told her she had to fight a troll, she likely wouldn't have flinched. "A simple one," she promised. Cauthrien swallowed once, then nodded, and Anora turned to go.

Not until she was in the corridor did she allow the smile to surface.

* * *

"Blast." What sadistic soul came up with the idea of covering buttons in _satin_?

He tried once more to work the button through the hole in the high collar, but his hands were trembling, and he couldn't see beneath his chin, and the slippery little bastard squirted from his fingertips. Again.

"Damn it!"

"Hold still." Talia stepped close, reaching up and easily feeding the button through the hole. "There." She straightened the collar, smoothed the front of the doublet with careful hands and stepped back. "Good thing you had a valet to shave you," she teased him gently.

Fergus managed a chuckle. "Slitting my own throat on my wedding day would not be considered a vote of confidence," he quipped, trying to ignore his stomach flopping in his gut like a gaffed fish at the word 'wedding'.

He was getting married.

Today.

Maker help him.

He glanced in the full length mirror and grimaced. His mustache and beard were neatly trimmed, and while there was definitely more grey than had been there a year ago, it was presentable enough. The rest, though - "I look like a sodding Orlesian," he muttered, knowing that he was exaggerating but unable to help contrasting the simple yet stylish garb he'd worn on his first wedding day to what was evidently required to wed a queen. White silk tunic with bloused sleeves. Cream-colored doublet and capelet with gold brocade and ermine trim.

"I could ask Leliana to find you some tights if you want to complete the look," Talia offered with a smirk, nodding at the deep blue linen trousers that were the most sensible part of the ensemble, even with the gold braid down the outer seam.

"Don't you dare." She could afford to look smug; she and Cauthrien had been fitted with elegant but simple dresses in silk of rich crimson and gold, with no frills or fripperies. There was no real heat in his retort, though; he knew what she was trying to do.

"Am I doing the right thing, little sister?" he asked, abandoning any attempt at levity to regard her somberly.

Their father's eyes looked back at him from a face that seemed to resemble their mother more each day. "You're doing what must be done," she told him with a sad smile. "What you were raised to do. We both are."

"Warden-Commander and King." Fergus shook his head in bemusement.

"It's nothing they ever imagined for us," Talia agreed, adding wistfully, "They wanted me to marry Rory."

"I know. Mother told me," Fergus replied in answer to her surprised expression. "She was beginning to despair of either of you ever making a move and hoped I could nudge you along."

"We were happy just being friends," his sister said with a shrug. "I wasn't ready to change that yet. I would probably have been happy enough being married to him, but ..." She trailed off, shrugged again. Another future that would never come to pass. The young man who might have become a knight of Highever and Fergus' brother-in-law had given his life to buy Talia and their mother time to find their father and escape. Maker willing, he had died without learning that Bryce and Eleanor had been cut down in the larder.

Talia's eyes shone a bit too brightly, and she could not quite meet his gaze. "I know I should want to give it all up if it would bring them back," she began, her voice thick with emotion and guilt suffusing her features. "I know that, but -"

He let her get no further, stepping forward and drawing her to him until their foreheads touched, still managing to be surprised at how close they were in height. "Nothing will bring them back," he told her, his own throat feeling tight with the lingering pain of that admission. "I don't begrudge what you have with Leliana. I want you to be happy." He'd never seen her look at Rory Gilmore the way she looked at the Orlesian.

"I want you to be happy, too," she protested, sniffling a bit and looking both relieved and guilty.

"I've had my happiness, little sister," he replied, because he knew she would see through any attempts to lie on that score, "and I may have it again. For now, I am content." That much was true, though he could not imagine that he would ever again find the joy that he had known with Oriana, and a hidden place in his heart protested bitterly at the notion of loving any child but his sweet Oren. He had brought their murderer to justice, and that would have to be enough. Duty called him now, and if it would not be the duty that he would have chosen for himself, he had the chance to do more good than he ever would have as Teyrn of Highever. It might not have been what their parents had intended for him, but he knew without doubt what they would have expected of them.

A discreet knock at the door redirected his attention back to his immediate future, and small birds started swooping in his belly. "Maker's blood," he muttered, dragging the fingers of one hand through his hair in a nervous reflex, then catching himself halfway through. "Oh, for the love of -"

Little sister to the rescue. "Come here." Talia wiped her eyes and retrieved a comb from the dressing stand. Their eyes met briefly, shared memory rising between them.

_"Fergus Cousland, if you think I'll let you greet King Cailan with your head looking like a haystack, you're sadly mistaken! Give Oren to your father and bend down!"_

It was Oriana's voice in his mind as he ducked his head a bit to allow his sister to comb his hair back into neatness. "There," she said quietly, hugging him tight for a moment before stepping away. "We'd better go."

Zevran waited for them in the corridor. The elf showed no inclination to give up his self-assigned role as Fergus' bodyguard, and while his skills had not yet been needed, Fergus welcomed his presence. Publicly, support for Anora and her choice of a husband remained high, but he knew that there were those, like Bann Ceorlic and Bann Esmerelle, who were holding their tongues and biding their time.

" _Gan'Chinua, Vachini_ ," Zevran greeted them with a bow, a faint smile curving his lips at the use of their Chasind names, his gaze resting briefly on the thin braid that adorned the left temple of each of the siblings, each tipped with a carved bone bead. Fergus would have welcomed the presence of his adoptive clan at his wedding, but the last of the clans had left two days ago, returning to the Korcari Wilds to begin reclaiming the territory that had been overrun by the darkspawn

Tensions had already begun to rise as the darkspawn remaining above ground grew fewer and fewer in number; even after their assistance in the fight against the darkspawn, longstanding prejudices against the "savages" lingered and could not be dispelled simply because Fergus wished it so. Change – real, lasting change – would require time, persistence and resolve, but the first steps would be taken soon.

For now, he and Talia had brushed aside the subtle nudges from those who had helped them prepare for the wedding that the braids and beads could "surely be set aside for the day?". Sharp eyes would undoubtedly take notice, but the only ones whose opinions Fergus cared for knew his reasons.

Fergus remembered very little of the ensuing hours. The ceremony took place in the throne room of the palace, as the Chantry was still being repaired after sustaining damage in the siege. Decorations were sparing; the kingdom's coffers, already depleted from the civil war, would be further lowered by the need to rebuild. He remembered Cauthrien preceding Anora down the aisle, looking surprisingly elegant and displaying no hint of discomfort at either the dress that she wore or the curious stares of the onlookers. He remembered being surprised at how similar she and Talia were in height and build, and wondering who would emerge the victor were they to fight. He remembered Anora. Her dress was a match for his own garb: cream-colored silk with gilt trim and deep blue panels at bodice and skirt, it bore little resemblance to the elaborate white gown that she had worn when she wed Cailan, but she looked every inch a queen. Perhaps only he was close enough to see the fear ripple briefly beneath her composed mien in the moment before she responded to Grand Cleric Elmena's prompting for her vows.

Then it was gone, and he was a husband for the second time in his life, exchanging a chaste kiss before lowering his head to allow his wife and Queen to place the crown on his head, making him King. Turning with her hand in his to face the cheering guests, seeing Anders giving him a cheeky grin from where the mage was seated among the Grey Wardens, then to a balcony with the streets below filled with throngs of people crowding the square and spilling into the streets beyond. The roar that erupted from hundreds of throats when they appeared: a celebration of neither Fergus nor Anora, but of hope. The weight that settled on his shoulders and wrapped about his chest at the realization of just how much of that hope rested on the choices that he would make.

Then the feast and ball: much more restrained than the affair that had followed the wedding of Cailan and Anora. The greater share of the limited funds for the day had been directed to compensate tavern owners for food and drink provided to the celebrants throughout Denerim. The palace chefs stretched their ingenuity to make effective use of a limited budget and scant larder, but Fergus would have been hard pressed to name a single dish that was served, or the names of any of the women that he danced with afterward save Anora, Talia and Leliana.

"You are nervous," the Orlesian observed, peering up at him as they glided through the steps of a waltz.

He managed a chuckle. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not at all," she assured him with a gentle smile, "unless one knows what to look for. I doubt many others have noticed." She glanced to where Anora danced with Teagan. "She is nervous, as well."

"I know."

Blue eyes turned back to him, bright with approval. "You have a kind heart," she observed. "She needs that."

"Cailan was not a bad man," Fergus replied uncomfortably. To say otherwise felt tantamount to treason.

Leliana's smile turned slightly sad. "He was a boy who was not given the chance to become the man he might have been," she told him. "Anora was a queen without a king … and a wife without a husband."

"You've talked to her?" Fergus was not one to turn down any advantage, but Leliana shook her head.

"Listening to servants and guards is a skill I learned long ago," she said modestly, her smile giving way to a more serious expression. "You both deserve happiness. I hope that you can find it."

* * *

Fergus wasn't panicking as the door to the royal quarters closed behind him, but there was no denying that the birds were once again swooping in his belly and his heart was beating considerably faster than could be assigned to the stairs they had ascended.

The sitting room was spacious, with thick carpets on the floor, a small dining nook in a windowed alcove for private meals, two chairs arranged before a fireplace that had been lit in preparation for their arrival, the walls alternately devoted to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves laden with tomes and pictures: not portraits of past royalty but landscapes, pastoral scenes, sunsets over mountain and sea. Nothing of Cailan remained in this room … if it had ever been present.

Anora watched in silence as he approached one of the bookshelves, scanning the titles. Books on history, diplomacy, art, science … and an Orlesian romance tucked discreetly between the weightier tomes. Fergus recognized the title from Oriana's collection and pretended not to have seen it, scanning past it without pausing before turning back to her.

"An impressive collection." Highever had boasted a decent library; the number and quality of books here alone very nearly matched it, but he winced inwardly to hear himself sounding like a houseguest paying a polite compliment to his hostess.

"The library on the first floor has an excellent selection," she replied, equally polite. "You are of course welcome to bring any of them back here for ease of access." Her words sounded no less stilted and awkward, and she bit lightly at her lower lip, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Your bedchamber is through there," she went on, nodding to one of the other two doors that led from the sitting room. "There are other suites available in this wing, should you prefer."

Her tone remained carefully formal, and Fergus frowned slightly. Their discussions prior to the wedding had centered on political plans, both of them shying away from any consideration of domestic concerns. "Anora -"

"My fertile period is not for another week," she cut him off hurriedly, hands smoothing nervously over her skirt. "There is no need for you to -"

"Anora." Fergus stepped forward, catching her hands in his own, careful to keep a bit of distance between them. "Listen to me … please?"

Blue eyes regarded him for a long moment, the emotion behind them inscrutable, before her head inclined in the slightest of nods. Releasing her hands, he moved to the chairs before the fireplace, settling in one and waiting until she took the other to speak again.

"This marriage was agreed upon for the good of Ferelden," he began, still not entirely sure what he wanted to say, let alone how to say it, "but I agreed then, and I vowed today, to be not only King but husband. I take those vows no less seriously." He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees. "When I kissed you today, it was the first time since well before my first wedding that I have kissed a woman besides Oriana." Definitely not the most romantic words to be uttering on one's wedding night, he reflected ruefully.

Anora nodded, her expression pensive. "I believe you," she said quietly. "Your parents' devotion to each other was well known, and you never had a reputation for philandering. My own marriage was -" she cocked her head slightly, lips thinning, "-quite different, and for all that my father was never unfaithful to my mother, their marriage was always more of a business arrangement than a romantic union." Her gaze dropped to her hands folded primly in her lap. "I fear that I have little idea of how to be a wife."

"I had little idea of how to be a husband when I married, despite having my own father as an example," Fergus offered in turn. He had taken so much for granted back then; all of it was gone now, and it fell to him to build a life with what remained. "And I have little idea of how to be a husband in _this_ marriage, but it is something that I would like to learn, if you are willing."

She rose in sudden agitation and walked to the window, pushing the heavy velvet drapes aside. "Is it not enough that I be a good Queen?" she demanded defensively as she peered into the darkness beyond the glass. "I have always been content thusly." She did not turn around, but her shoulders slumped visibly as she continued. "You are free to seek such comfort elsewhere, so long as you are suitably discreet."

"I will not." He came to his feet and crossed to her, rubbing his palms against the legs of his trousers. "And not only because my mother would cross the Veil to box my ears if I did so." She glanced back at him in surprise and turned quickly back to the window, but not before he saw a faint smile touch her lips.

"If you truly wish only a political marriage," he went on, "then I will accept that and be content, but I believe that we have a chance to be more than that. Let me woo you." She turned to him fully then, her expression surprised and words of rejection already forming on her lips. "Not in public," he clarified hurriedly. "Only when we are alone."

That mollified her somewhat, but she still looked skeptical. "That hardly seems necessary," she sniffed. "You have me already."

"Your hand in marriage, yes," Fergus agreed, "but not your heart. Nor do you have mine," he added candidly. "Arranged marriages generally make no time for courtship beforehand, but that does not mean that it need be foregone altogether."

"It usually is, though," she reminded him, exasperated bafflement creeping back into her tone. "Why go to such trouble? I assure you that I will do my part in the duty of begetting heirs, regardless."

"Because you are not a brood mare," Fergus answered with a sigh, "nor am I a stud. Because I am not inclined to simply accept 'good enough' when I believe that better is possible. Because -" he reached out and took one of her hands. "Because I want very much to better know the woman who was willing to fight and die beside me in the Alienage." He was willing to wager that neither Cailan nor her father had ever seen that side of Anora, though he thought that Loghain, at least, would have approved. Taking a deep breath, he played his final card. "Because I believe that I could love her, given the chance, if she would let me."

He sank to one knee, still holding her hand and hoping that he wasn't about to make a royal ass of himself – pun very much intended. "My lady, will you allow me to court you as you deserve? Six months," he added when she continued to look dubious. "If after that, you find me not to your tastes, we go forward and rule together as friends."

"Assuming you have not run screaming by that point." The words were spoken with wry humor, but the weight of belief underlay them, and Fergus silently damned Cailan for a fool. She searched his face intently. "Three months," she said at last, "and not a word of this goes beyond the two of us. Not even your sister."

"Five months," he countered, emboldened by the fact that she had not refused him outright, "and you have my word as a Cousland: I will tell no one."

"Four." Blue eyes gleamed faintly with amusement, but her tone was firm.

"Four," Fergus agreed, sealing the pact with a chaste kiss to the back of her hand and resolving that anything further would be fairly won. Not the most conventional of wedding nights by any standards, but it was a better start than he'd thought to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not a whole lot of Talia & Leliana in this one, but some supporting characters that I have become quite fond of over the years.
> 
> Anora is often portrayed as a conniving shrew (and admittedly can be one in-game, depending on your choices), but I had to wonder what having a husband who seemed to have zero interest in her, to the point of letting her bear the blame for the lack of an heir when he was sleeping with damn near anyone but her, would have done to her confidence. Add to that her competence in governing being disregarded because she wasn't popping out babies, and her own father being willing to sacrifice her for the kingdom, and I can definitely see where she would conclude that she has to look out for herself because no one else will do it.
> 
> Teasing out a little more of the backstory between she and Cauthrien, along with the notion that a nascent romance between the girls might have been the real reason that Loghain pulled Cauthrien as his daughter's companion. Definitely a Stolen Moments chapter brewing there, maybe a full-on AU story, but the latter will have to wait because all my burners are full right now.
> 
> I didn't feel right just tossing Fergus and Anora together in an arranged marriage and telling them to go forth and multiply, but just handwaving an HEA didn't sit well, either. I'm not planning on following the whole courtship, but I did want to take a look at their different experiences with marriage and how it influenced their expectations of this marriage, and at least get them started on the road.


	3. A Last Request

**_Late Justinian, 31 Dragon_ **

Talia forced herself to walk down the gangplank at a measured pace, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead but nonetheless aware of the gap between the hull of the ship and the dock. A foot wide, maybe less, it was too narrow for her to fall through if she did slip, but it still felt like a yawning chasm beneath her feet, the water lapping gently at the hull of the ship seeming to reach up hungrily for her, and it was all she could do not to bolt the last few steps.

It was always easier to wear her armor than carry it, but she'd removed it as soon as she had boarded the Lady Arabelle; the notion of bearing its weight in the middle of the ocean, with fathomless depths only a single misstep away, had been intolerable. Even without it, she hadn't much cared for being on deck. Fortunately, Leliana had proven quite creative in devising ways to keep them in their cabin and keep Talia's mind off of the ocean surrounding them, and the three-day voyage from Denerim to Kirkwall had been by far the longest time they had been allowed to enjoy each other's company without interruptions for duty.

That didn't mean that she was eager to repeat the experience. "Maybe go home overland?" she suggested hopefully as her bard joined her on the dock.

Leliana slipped a hand into hers, squeezing gently. "It would be a long journey," she warned. "Two weeks, maybe more."

"Would that be a bad thing?" Talia asked, giving her lover a significant look. Leliana's gentle laugh danced in the air, but Talia didn't need to be told that there were reasons apart from time for not making such a trek. Two women alone would be tempting prey for bandits, and while Talia was confident that she and Leliana were more than a match for any brigands, once combat was entered, blind chance always had a role to play. And then there were wolves, and darkspawn. Records brought by the Orlesian Wardens to rebuild the library of the Fereldan order suggested that the Thaw could take a decade or more before the last remnants of the hoard summoned by the Archdemon would fully subside into the Deep Roads. Even then, there would be breakthroughs.

"Just give me a few days," she sighed, resigning herself to another voyage by sea. "Maybe it'll get better." She had loved swimming as a child, but nearly drowning in the Deep Roads after being knocked into an underground river in full plate armor had left its mark. The gut-clenching terror of the first few days had faded, but just being near a river or lake while in her armor made her uneasy, and despite the advance of summer in Ferelden, she had felt no urge to go swimming.

"It will," Leliana promised her. "It just takes time, my love." A knowing smile touched the full lips as she added, "I may have an idea to help things along."

"Oh?" Intrigue and anticipation curled pleasantly beneath Talia's ribs, but her bard would say no more, turning instead to the sailors who were carrying their baggage down the gangplank.

"Please deliver them to The Golden Chalice," she instructed them, giving the one in the lead the note that would secure their lodgings at the Hightown inn for the next few days and the coin to pay for it, along with a generous tip.

Accepting that her lover would reveal her plans when she was ready and quite willing to be surprised, Talia turned her attention to their surroundings. It was her first time outside of Ferelden, and she was curious about this city that had been centuries-old when Calenhad united the Alamarri clans. The cliffs that shielded the harbor were formidable and the twin statues flanking the channel impressive; she'd barely noticed them on the way in, her focus narrowed down to the water all around.

She turned her attention to the fortress they had sailed past on their way to the docks. It was well-positioned to act as the next line of defense if invaders made it past the massive chain net that could be raised between the statues and the lighthouse and through the narrow channel.

"The Gallows." Leliana stood beside her, staring out at the structure, her expression uncharacteristically grim. "Kirkwall was the center of the slave trade in ancient Tevinter, and the Gallows was the center of the slave trade in Kirkwall. Countless slaves were killed there as punishment for disobedience, their bodies hung on display as a warning to others. The courtyard is said to be lined with statues of slaves being tortured."

Talia frowned at this. "Still?" The images of the old Tevinter gods that had been carved into the cliff faces had shown extensive signs of attempts to obliterate them; statues could be pulled down far more easily.

Her lover nodded. "At first, it was likely so that the evil done there would never be forgotten, but now I suspect there is another purpose." Her lips thinned. "The Gallows houses Kirkwall's Circle of Magi and the templars."

"To warn the mages what could happen to them if they get out of line?" Talia looked to her in astonishment, then back to the Gallows, frown deepening to a scowl. "Or to tell them they are no better than slaves?" Either seemed a good way to incite a rebellion similar to the one that Uldred had caused at Kinloch Hold. On the other hand, the demons and abominations that had been unleashed then were a sobering reminder of what could happen if mages lost control of their magic. "What would Wynne think, do you suppose?"

"She would not approve," Leliana said without hesitation, then sighed. "But it is not an easy question to answer, is it? We saw that in Ferelden's circle."

"I know." The knowledge still did not sit well with Talia, but there was nothing they could do about it, nor had it been the reason for their journey. She turned away from the fortress, rolling her shoulders to adjust the sword that lay across her back. The pommel jutted well above the top of her head, while the tip of the worn but well-maintained leather scabbard nearly brushed the ground.

Asala had still been in Sten's grasp when his body had been found, or so Talia had been told. She had lain unconscious then and had not roused until after he had been placed upon a pyre separate from the scores of others killed in that final battle. When she had recovered, she ventured into the quarters that he had been assigned in the palace and found two missives on the desk: one several pages, folded neatly and sealed with wax; the other addressed to her, a single page, the script upon it small and precise.

_Kadan,_

_If I die in the upcoming battle, do not trouble yourself with my body. It is not the way of the Qunari to waste ceremony upon an empty shell._

_Two charges I give you: return Asala to my people and deliver my report to the Arishok, that the mission I was given may be completed._

No signature. No words of farewell. But the trust implicit in the request that he had made, without a hint of doubt that she would fulfill it, spoke as eloquently as the words not written. It was folded up in her belt pouch now alongside the missive for the Arishok. Initially, the prospect of the long voyage to Seheron had meant a wait of several months, until word had come from traders out of the Free Marches of the storm that had sunk a Qunari ship, stranding a contingent of their warriors – including the Arishok – in Kirkwall.

Glancing around, Talia spotted a guard wearing the city's livery and approached. "Greetings," she offered, bowing slightly. "I have business with the Qunari; are they still in Kirkwall?"

"They are … Warden," he answered, eyes flicking curiously to the griffons on her breastplate before returning to her face, the displeasure in his expression not directed at her. "They're there." He jerked his chin to an odd-looking structure in the center of the docks. "The Viscount gave 'em that space to keep 'em from takin' over the sodding city."

"Are they hostile, then?" Talia asked, startled and worried. Sten had spoken of Qunari conquest of the south as inevitable, but not imminent. So soon after the Blight, Ferelden would make easy pickings, but the guardsman shook his head.

"Nay, they've not raised hand or blade, but that don't stop 'em from walkin' about the city like they own it, comin' and goin' where they like without s'much as a by-your-leave." He turned his head and spat on the weathered boards.

"What is their purpose here?" Leliana asked, getting a mirthless chuckle in response.

"Well now, that is something they haven't seen fit to share with anyone," he grunted. "Or if they have, it hasn't been shared with the rank and file. Whatever it is, looks like they're plannin' on stayin' a while. Didn't even try t'fix their ship. Jus' took it apart and used the pieces t'build up their compound. Say they're waitin' on another ship, but they don't seem to be lookin' for it."

Talia puzzled over it as she and Leliana made their way across the docks, found her steps slowing as they approached the compound. No ships were tied up near it, and the bustling activity that dominated the rest of the docks gave this area a wide berth. The two guards at the entrance regarded them impassively. Talia had seen horns on the Tal-Vashoth mercenaries they had encountered during the Blight, knew that Sten's lack of them was unusual, but these looked like nothing she had ever seen. As tall and powerfully built as Sten had been, they seemed even bigger: bare-chested, their skin decorated with the armoring paint called _vitaar_ (Sten had lost his supply and been forced to utilize normal armor), their horns adding another foot to their height and changing the shapes of their skulls into something alien and forbidding.

"Greetings." She came to a stop before them. She didn't bow; Sten had never seemed to care for such customs."I am Warden-Commander Talia Cousland of Ferelden. I have business with your Arishok, if he is available."

Sten's eyes had been violet; the eyes of the Qunari on the left were the crimson of half-dried blood, while those of the one on the right were a vivid gold. Both sets of eyes looked down at her, giving no hint of acknowledgment that she had even spoken, and she had to tamp down the impulse to step protectively in front of Leliana.

After several moments, one of them turned silently, jerking his head in what Talia took as an indication that they should follow.

"Did you want to wait here?" The unease prickling at the back of her neck demanded that Talia ask the question, but she was not overly surprised when Leliana gave her a mildly exasperated look and shook her head. Willing herself not to touch Starfang's hilt, Talia fell into step behind the guard, acutely aware that the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. She had grown accustomed to Sten's size over the months they had traveled, had stopped considering it unusual.

Now, as they moved into the compound, they were surrounded by giants, all of them armed and armored, all of them male, all of them busy. Ten … twenty … thirty … Talia stopped counting at fifty. Some worked at a makeshift forge, repairing weapons and armor. Some sparred or practiced forms in a small open area. Some were cooking over a large iron stove. Some were building what looked to be a storehouse from pieces of wooden planking. All of them labored in a near silence that was even more unnerving than their size. No idle talk, jokes or laughter, as would have been the case with almost any other group of soldiers. A few glanced up as they passed, the disinterest in their expressions little different than someone watching a bug crawling on a windowsill. The prickle of unease intensified, but there was nothing to be done but keep following.

In the center of the compound, a platform had been constructed, atop which sat a bench built from two massive beams carved into stylized dragon heads, perhaps rams from the lost ship. Seated on the bench, flanked by two guards, was the largest Qunari that Talia had yet seen. Powerfully built and broad-shouldered, he sported massive black horns, and a heavy brow overhung deep-set silver eyes. With his grey skin, he might have been mistaken for a statue, so motionless he sat, massive forearms propped on his knees, craggy features set into an expression as unyielding as stone, and his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

His posture shifted almost imperceptibly as they approached, his eyes flicking to their escort, who mounted the platform and bent to speak to him in low tones, then back to them as the guard stepped back and took up a post to their rear. He sat up straight – even sitting, he would have been nearly as tall as Leliana - and remained silent for a long moment, his focus moving from the breastplate of her armor to her face. In her memory, Talia could hear Sten's voice:

_"I don't understand. You look like a woman."_

Trying to be conciliatory had never worked with Sten. Only when she stood her ground and pushed back had he seemed to respect her. She met the Arishok's eyes without flinching, readying herself for an argument and weighing just how hard she could push back when they were very much outnumbered.

" _Shanedan_ , Grey Warden," he intoned at last. "We have heard the reports of how your order ended the Blight. It was a worthy accomplishment."

Not what she had been expecting, and Talia quickly reworked her response. "One of your own was instrumental in that victory," she replied. "Sten of the Beresaad. He alone survived an attack by the darkspawn on the expedition that you sent to Ferelden. He became a companion to the Grey Wardens and helped us kill the Archdemon." She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. "We wouldn't have done it without him. He died in the fight."

She lifted the baldric over her head and held Asala out to the Arishok. "He asked that I return his weapon to his people."

He took the weapon and looked it over without changing expression. "It is our custom to pay the people of these lands for the return of the weapons of our fallen. What price do you seek?"

Talia frowned and shook her head. "He was my friend," she declared firmly. "I owe him my life many times over. This was his last request of me; I need no payment."

A flicker of something – respect, perhaps? - in the grey eyes in the moment before the Arishok turned to hand off the greatsword to one of the two guards. They handled the sheathed blade with solemn respect, but no real appearance of reverence, nor had any of them displayed any emotion at the news of the deaths of their vanguard forces.

Returning the sword had only been one of Sten's tasks for her, and Talia withdrew the sealed letter from her belt. "Sten also asked that I deliver this to you."

He accepted the missive, broke the wax seal, and read the contents in silence. Around them, those who were working had never paused in their labor, and they did not now. The pair that flanked the bench showed no curiosity about what their commander was reading. Their gazes never left Talia and Leliana, and while they were not overtly hostile, the attention was unsettling. What was their function? Were they simply an honor-guard, or were they assigned to protect the Arishok, who looked more than capable of defending himself?

She chanced a glance at Leliana; her bard's expression was as impassive as any of the Qunari, but the blue eyes were intent, shifting subtly here and there, taking in every detail. Her manner was relaxed, but Talia knew from experience that it masked a readiness to spring into action if needed. Hopefully it wouldn't be needed; Talia did not believe that Sten would have put anything into his letter to harm her deliberately, but what if the Arishok interpreted it differently?

Minutes ticked by as the Arishok finished one page and shifted it to the bottom before reading the next page, then the next, then the next. Four pages, in the same small, precise script that had been in the letter to Talia. What had he written? It was warmer this far north, and the towering walls of the compound blocked any sea breezes; Talia could feel the sweat trickling over her skin as the heat built beneath her armor.

After what seemed an eternity, he lowered the parchment and lifted his gaze to them once more. "The Beresaad were sent to Ferelden to answer a question: 'What is the Blight?'," he intoned. "With your aid, the Sten has provided the answer to that question." The grey eyes focused on Talia. "You are _basalit-an_ : one worthy of respect."

"Thank you." From her discussions with Sten, Talia knew that it was as great an accolade as a non-Qunari could expect to receive. She waited, but he was silent once more, his focus returned to somewhere in the middle distance. After a few moments, she spoke up. "I am sorry that your ship was destroyed. If there is any aid that Ferelden can offer -"

"There is not."

Leliana tried. "Do you need a message sent to Seheron requesting another ship?"

"No."

It was so much like talking to Sten that Talia had to suppress a bittersweet smile; she wasn't certain how it would be received in present company. "Why were you so far south?" she asked. The key was in presenting questions that required more than monosyllabic answers.

The Arishok shifted slightly, his eyes focusing on them again. "We seek a relic that has been stolen from us. When we have recovered it, we will return."

Talia exchanged a cautious glance with Leliana. It was reassuring to hear that invasion was not their intent, but would the Arishok admit openly if it were? "What is the relic that you seek?" Leliana asked him. "Perhaps we could assist you in -"

"No." The Arishok had never raised his voice, but there was the thinnest edge of impatience in his last response that Talia thought it best not to test further.

"We take our leave of you, then," she told him, dipping a slight bow from habit.

" _Maraas toh ebra-shok, Warden,_ " the Arishok replied, then began to re-read Sten's report. Taking that as a dismissal, Talia turned to follow their escort back out of the compound. She did not relax fully until they were back out on the docks and well away.

"That was -" She glanced back and gave a rueful chuckle, shaking her head. "I'm not sure what I was expecting," she admitted. "He didn't even act as though he cared that Sten and the others were dead."

"They fulfilled their duty," Leliana observed. "That is what matters to the Qunari. Seeing them all, I better understand Sten, but I also have many more questions."

"So do I," Talia sighed, "and I don't expect we'll be getting any answers." She regarded her lover somberly. "Do you think he was being honest about why they were in the south?"

"A single ship is an unlikely invasion force," Leliana replied thoughtfully. "Their war with Tevinter has not abated; opening a second front so far away would be unwise, and they are known to be skilled strategists. I wonder what this relic they are looking for is."

"A sword, like Asala?" Talia suggested as they reached the bottom of a steep staircase that stretched upward, its end lost to sight. Sten's determination to recover his lost blade suggested just how doggedly his fellows would pursue an artifact of collective importance. "I wouldn't want to be the thief when they caught up with him."

"Indeed," Leliana agreed, glancing up, then to Talia. "Shall we explore Kirkwall?"

"Think I'd like to get out of this armor first," Talia replied. It was more than the heat or the weight; after a year of all but living in the plate, she could wear it as long as needed, but already, she was aware of the curious stares that the Grey Warden heraldry embossed on the breastplate were drawing. Even without the armor, her face was generally recognized in Denerim these days, but here, she could be anonymous, just another Fereldan wandering through the city, and that prospect appealed to her.

"The Golden Chalice, then," Leliana said, then gave her lover a sly smile. "I warn you, I may not stop at getting you out of your armor."

"You won't hear any objections from me," Talia responded with a laugh. They had a few days before they needed to leave to return to Ferelden. As long as the majority of that was spent in the company of her bard, she wasn't going to quibble over the details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular side trip has been planned for a while, ever since I realized that Sten was not going to survive the fight against the Archdemon. I was originally thinking of a trip to Seheron, but looking at the DAO/DA2 timelines, I realized that Kirkwall was the more practical choice. Sten's death obviously means that he won't be the new Arishok in the Silent Grove storyline, and since I'm not going to dive too deeply into that narrative, I wanted to let Talia see more Qunari through the lens of her experience with Sten
> 
> I wanted to touch on the lingering effects of Talia's near-death experience in the Deep Roads, and a ship in the middle of the ocean seemed as good a trigger as any. Leliana's suggestion of a way to help Talia get over her aversion to water will be a Stolen Moments chapter in the not-too-distant future.
> 
> One more Kirkwall chapter here to give Talia & Leliana the chance to run into some familiar faces & make a new friend or two. The events of Awakening haven't taken place yet, so Anders is still in Ferelden (the timeline in the games for him always seemed a bit dicey to me).

**Author's Note:**

> This one is definitely going to be what Moments In Time started out to be: a series of loosely connected one-shots tying the end of the original story to the beginning of Steadfast. Elements of DA2, Awakenings & Witch Hunt will be visible here and there, but it's mostly going to be either alternative takes or original content, as I wasn't that fond of Awakenings & have yet to play Witch Hunt.
> 
> This scene felt like a natural starting point. The first Joining is a pivotal moment for both Talia and Alistair, and it made sense to me to have it in Denerim, as well as to have the Warden reinforcements present. Having other tainted recruits besides Oghren made sense, as well, and let me work in some additional reactions that weren't possible in the Awakenings Joining. Mhairi remained a casualty; a bit of regret for that, but I wanted a known face among the losses, and Cauthrien, Anders and Oghren were not options.
> 
> Not sure how many installations this will be, but I'm estimating ten or so (one or two may be multi-chapter). I want to keep it limited, because I do want to finish Steadfast & Two Of A Kind, and the Inquiition fic – the first chapter should be up in a few days – is going to be another behemoth. Going to go back to keeping multiple fics in rotation to combat writer's block, but since I'm in a job that will not be shut down by the Coronavirus, the next few weeks are likely to be busier than usual.
> 
> Also still RP-ing over at thedastimelines.com, where we're welcoming new players, whether OC's or canons. Definitely slowed down, but we're still telling stories, so if that's something that interests you, come on by and check it out!


End file.
